


Empty Threats

by hippocrates460



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Greg to the rescue, Guess who's on speed dial?, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft gets hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-08 01:07:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16419512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hippocrates460/pseuds/hippocrates460
Summary: Who does the British Government call when they're hurting?





	Empty Threats

**Author's Note:**

> The wonderful person who bid on my fic asked for "Hurt or Injured or Angsty/Traumatic Past Mycroft is rescued from a fate worse than death by Caring but Not Willing to be Pushed Around Greg". Hope you like it!
> 
> For the [Mark Gatiss birthday project](https://markgatissbirthdayproject.tumblr.com/). Thank you so much for organizing, [@antheas-blackberry ](http://antheas-blackberry.tumblr.com/)!

“Unhand me this instant,” Mycroft whines, and Greg hears ‘don’t leave me’.

“I can think of twenty-three ways to kill you,” becomes ‘please help’.

“Cease your torturous noise,” means ‘I’m overwhelmed and hurting’.

Cracking the code did not take very long, considering the extensive experience Greg has with the difficult and whiny. Endless patience has always been the key. That and the bone-deep awareness that neither Holmes has more than a passing knowledge of how other people actually behave.

Which is why when Mycroft gets shot in the leg and Greg finds out that he is the emergency contact for both Holmes’, he is surprised, but not for long. Perhaps the same Mycroft that took two years to smile at Greg, the same Mycroft that only started using his name after five years, actually trusts him. At the hospital it becomes clear that there isn’t anyone else, so Greg applies for a week’s leave, packs a bag, and lets Sherlock have enough cold cases to keep him out of the way.

Mycroft gets home with loud complaints and angry threats, but when he’s settled he thanks Greg with the offer to use his movie room whenever he wants. When Greg wakes up for the umpteenth time to help Himself to the bathroom, Mycroft quietly suggests that he could take care of his mortgage. It takes at least an hour to explain that the offer is both inappropriate and unnecessary, but after that, Greg is officially in love.

 

“DI Lestrade,” Mycroft croaks on the morning of the fourth day.

“It’s Greg,” Greg suggests, helping Mycroft up to sitting. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m quite alright, thank you for asking,” Mycroft’s auto-pilot voice says, and confused eyes blink at him. “I was going to ask you a question.”

“A question that starts with my title?” Greg hands over the pain pills and a glass of water. “Should I be worried?”

Mycroft takes the pills, and leans back against the pillows with a sigh. It takes him so long to look at Greg again that Greg has to resist the urge to fidget. If Mycroft needs a moment to gather his thoughts, he can have it. Just when Greg thinks that maybe he’s looking at someone who fell asleep mid-sentence, grey eyes fix on him. A worried frown that Greg wants to soothe with a warm hand or a quick kiss.

“How much do I owe you for your care?” Mycroft says finally and Greg can’t help himself. He laughs. He also walks around the bed to sit down next to Mycroft and take his hand. Clammy and cold.

“Mycroft,” he says, looking at the wall opposite the bed to give him some space. “You can’t pay people to be nice to you.”

Mycroft splutters and his hand twitches in Greg’s. “I- I wouldn’t, not. To presume...” He shuts up when Greg squeezes his hands though. Sighs. Gathers all his politician’s public-school bullshit and sits up a little straighter. “Of course I can. Besides, I am not offering to pay for your _kindness_. I’m offering to compensate you for your time. Surely – ”

“Spare me,” Greg laughs, and he feels Mycroft stiffen. That won’t do. “You,” he turns around to find a carefully blank face, “are my friend.”

The mask breaks and ‘oh’ comes out as a soft sigh. He’s all surprise, looking to Greg for help, and bless him.

“Would you like to know what that means to me?” Greg asks, gentle as he can, and Mycroft nods. “It means taking care of each other, being there when someone needs help. Dinner, lunch, a drink. Spending time together because you want to.”

“I would... be amenable to,” Mycroft frowns, like he’s thinking something, “that.”

“What’s bothering you?”

“I’m considering the specifics,” Mycroft admits. “Like how often, where, what are the limits?”

Greg bites his lip in order not to smile, “we could draw up a contract but I’m fairly sure it’s called marriage if you do.”

“I see,” Mycroft lies.

“Mycroft?” Greg leans a little closer but Mycroft keeps frowning at the wall. The hand Greg is holding twitches again. “Sweetheart, what’s that expression for?”

“Marriage would include more than companionship and assistance,” his tone is accusatory and Greg loves him all the more for it.

“Not while your leg’s shot up it wouldn’t.”

“There’ll be scarring,” Mycroft’s staring at his leg now, like it has offended him.

“I hope you know,” and it seems they really are having this conversation. Greg tugs on Mycroft’s hand until he looks up, “that I’ll gladly lick every one of your scars.”

It takes a second but the corner of Mycroft’s mouth curls up, like he finally gets it. His eyes twinkle, then shine bright, like his sense of humour is coming back online after long days of painkiller-induced haziness. “I bit my tongue yesterday.”

Greg feels his eyes crinkle as the grin he can’t help spreads over his face. He places one of his hands on Mycroft’s jaw. “What about your lips?” He whispers, leaning closer.

“Does a split lip when I was nine count?” Mycroft is still smiling, leaning in too.

“Think it does,” Greg whispers against his lips, before kissing Mycroft gently. Mycroft makes a small noise when Greg moves to lean away again, so Greg gets closer. Kisses him again. When he leans back properly, despite Mycroft’s protesting ‘ngh’, he takes a good look at him. Flushed cheeks, pinched expression.

“Are you in pain?”

“Not a lot,” Mycroft tries, and Greg untangles their hands and sits back.

“We’re not doing this if it hurts,” he promises, patient and firm, “but we can do it again when your painkillers have kicked in. Would you like to sleep a bit?”

“No.” Mycroft complains, but he lets himself be manoeuvred around until he’s lying down and comfortable. Greg is just about to swing his legs off the bed and leave the room when Mycroft’s hand finds his again. Tugs. “Stay?”

“Or else?”

“I’ll have you deported.” 


End file.
